


Down to the Last Man

by JustAnotherMadOne



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Angst, Fake AH Crew, Gen, Grief, Mentioned Character Death, Mourning, Trying too hard to be poetic, everyone's dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-28 02:45:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10066964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustAnotherMadOne/pseuds/JustAnotherMadOne
Summary: Based on this awesome piece of art! http://fahcjournals.tumblr.com/post/157917471405/dont-you-know-that-the-kids-arent-alrightIt was over.It was an unavoidable fact for Ryan Haywood… no, the Vagabond.He had lost his right to that name the moment they burned.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NohBeretta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NohBeretta/gifts).



> WHO WANTS ANGST?
> 
> YEAH YOU DO.
> 
> Anyway, I was on a Discord server with a bunch of RT fans (Molotov Cocktales) and one of the people there posted this piece of art (http://fahcjournals.tumblr.com/post/157917471405/dont-you-know-that-the-kids-arent-alright) and I loved it, so, this is what happened afterwards.
> 
> So, Noh, if you're reading this, here you go! Hope you enjoy it!
> 
> EDIT: Now with a dramatic reading done by me! https://soundcloud.com/al-jamo-509549884/down-to-the-last-man-an-rt-fanfic-dramatic-reading

_**It was over.** _

 It was an unavoidable fact for Ryan Haywood… no,  _ the Vagabond _ .

_ He had lost his right to that name the moment they burned. _

 The man walked solemnly down the road not caring for the splash of rain against his body, or the screeching of drunken bastards and vain women bitching about their outfits getting ruined. The cold didn’t phase him and the blare of gaudy neon lights barely elicited a twitch from him.

 When he wore the skull, nothing broke through his shell.

 But really, did he deserve to wear it anymore?

 He didn’t glance up when he arrived at his destination, having memorised the path over the last… what was it now? Weeks? Months?  _ Years?  _ It was meaningless to him now; nothing exactly mattered nowadays.

 He barely glanced at the sign, knowing exactly what it said in its stony grey letters; ‘ _ Los Santos Cemetery _ ’.

 He scoffed at the idea. In the Vagabond’s line of work, death was inevitable. Just as putting on scrubs was for a doctor, mopping the floor for a janitor, or wanting to shoot someone for a postal worker.

 Well, maybe that last one didn’t happen as often.

 Ryan - no, Vagabond - almost let a laugh fall from his lips, but just barely stopped it, a raspy sigh the only thing to escape. He could see the little cloud his breath made in the cold, like a dragon breathing smoke.

 Or maybe like the smoke curling from hellfire, which he would be on a fast track to…

 This time, a laugh did escape him.

 The man knew he was Hell-bound the moment he first picked up a gun, but he was sure that what happened had only cemented it.

 Christ, he could still smell the smoke, the gunpowder, the crimson blood  _ as it pooled in his hands ashecradledhisfriendtohischestandtryingnottocry… _

 He grit his teeth, keeping his stride as he approached a particular statue. It was a small replica of an angel (even though what they did spat in the face of God and they would laugh), and on its plinth was a brass plaque, which had ‘FAKES BURN IN HELL’ spray painted in red across it.

 The Vagabond’s eyes narrowed at the vandalism. He knew that all of the other graves would be cleaned off, but because of who was here, no one else would go near it. Whether it be because they were scared or just that the deceased in question were despised so much that the caretakers had no plans on keeping the grave clean.

 He knelt down in front of the plinth, knowing exactly what was written there, despite the angry red letters blocking them now.

 

_ In Loving Memory: _

_ Geoff ‘Lazer’ Ramsey, 1975 - 2017 _

_ Jack Shannon Pattillo, 1982 - 2017 _

_ Michael Vincent Jones, 1987 - 2017 _

_ Gavin David Free, 1988 - 2017 _

_ Jeremy Nicholas Dooley, 1991 - 2017 _

 

 Ryan felt his insides coil and writhe with anguish as he looked at the names.

 He should have seen the cracks in the plan. The flaws in the route. The thin red lines separating him and his friends from that abysmal void called death…!

 For the first time, he felt tears fall from his eyes and, without his usual hesitation, ripped off his black mask.

 He hadn’t bothered to apply his usual face-paint and he knew that his black hair dye was fading, exposing the golden roots of his real hair. He was falling apart and he knew it.

 It should have been an easy enough heist, but something had gone wrong and the cops showed up. Of course they put up a fight; they were the fucking Fake AH Crew! They wouldn’t back down from anything!

 But, everything turned against them far too quickly.

 Ryan remembered the panic starting as soon as a cop had shot Geoff, striking the Gent right between the eyes.

 Gavin was next, a bullet in his throat.

 Michael brought out grenades and tried to keep the cops away, but one of them had a lucky shot on the one the Jerseyite was holding at that moment.

 Jack was hit by shrapnel and bled out too quickly.

 Ryan barely escaped the scuffle, dragging a heavily bleeding Jeremy away from the scene. The minutes after that were a blur, but he could remember the younger’s panic as he bled out and the frequent question… that goddamn question… ‘Am I gonna die?’

 He tried, but the blood was lost far too quickly. He could only kneel there as he held Jeremy’s rapidly cooling corpse until the police sirens broke his haze.

 Ryan wanted to vomit as he was forced to leave his friend behind.

 He knew that the B Team had anonymously paid for the funeral and the burial, but broke apart and scattered to the winds when they caught wind. Figures that they would leave him alone.

 Ryan deserved to be alone.

 No.

 He was the Vagabond.

 ‘Ryan’ had died that day, even though the headstone lacked the details of ‘ _ James Ryan Haywood, 1980 - 2017 _ ’ and there was no corpse underground, ‘Ryan’ was dead.

 The Vagabond stood back up, grabbing his mask, glancing at the grave for one last moment before turning and walking away.

 The rain hit against him harder and harder, but the Vagabond paid it no heed. He kept on walking until he reached the cemetery sign again. He glanced down at his left hand, the black ink of ‘GENT’ on his knuckles now seeming to stand out even more against pale skin.

 They were gone.

 He was the last man standing.

 ‘Ryan’ sat back down in front of the sign, throwing the mask to the side and burying his face in his hands as the tears finally returned.

 “I’m sorry…” He murmured. “I’m so  _ goddamn sorry… _ ”

 The rain only fell harder, the last traces of ‘Ryan’ fading away and leaving behind only the Vagabond.


End file.
